Under Lock and Key
by Memento Mori
Summary: Snape has been keeping a diary all these years, storing every thought, every feeling, every secret under lock and key...until someone finally reads it. *SLASH* SS/LM, SS/Student
1. 1991 to 1992

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Deus, liberate me ex ipse.

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September 1, 1991

The first day. The first of many, many days.

The summer holidays fly by quickly, and all too soon I find myself back to face another dreaded year. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Then again, it may well be that I don't have a choice, that the matter is out of my hands. We shall see.

The Sorting took place today. Dumbledore required me to be there, yet another obligation that comes with my status as Head of House. A dubious honor, if anything, and a burden more often than not. Yet what would become of my Slytherin flock if given to the hands of one such as Sinistra? Slytherin, to be sure, yet there are times she would be more suited to the Badger House. She would never hold them together, never keep control the way I can, the way I must. But to what end? Will I see them off to wear the same brand that mars my own flesh? I have always appreciated irony, yet even this is bitter to my tongue. Every day, every year, I send another off towards the skeletal hands of the one I called Lord, and yet every night I work to undermine that same man. Perhaps, one day I will die at the hands of the very child I once nurtured in this cold egg I call home.

The Ceremony itself was, as always, a bore. Never a surprise. Except...that Potter boy. It seems he has come to Hogwarts at last. Gryffindor, of course. Following his beloved father and mother. I can almost pity the poor boy, inheriting a vendetta that was begun long before his time. He may never understand why I must hate him so, why every move I make will be to bring him closer to the edge of pain and despair. But such is life.

My own House was a disappointment. Names and faces I can't be bothered to remember, no one that strikes me as anything but more fodder for the Dark Arts. Muscle and grunts whose only function lies in taking orders from someone with more brains than a rat. But wait, I tell a lie. That one boy...make that three, stand out from the rest.

Malfoy. That name would shake me from the sleep of the Draught. Lucius' son, treading oh-so-carefully the footsteps of his father, flanked already by the two hulking lumps that must be Crabbe and Goyle. Funny, isn't it, how time can rewind itself and play back again, as if it had a memory of its own and idled itself away by calling up old images in reminiscence of the past. He looks so like a young Lucius, right down to the two stocky bodyguards at his side.

Another disappointing year, unless young Malfoy can find it in himself to outdo his father in his expertise in the acts of torment that come so naturally to those born to join our Lord. Doubtful, of course. It is even more doubtful that he will even break from the shadow of his father's prowess in...other fields. Either way, I will not be the one to know.

It does not appear that the other Houses fared any better, to my eyes, at least. Sprout will be happy, of course. "Send us your daft, your drones, your foolish and your weak," such is the motto of the Badger House. Ravenclaw. Let Flitwick deal with his students as he sees fit, I have no use for knowledge without power.

And Gryffindor, valiant Gryffindor. Potter. Another Weasley, it seems by the look of it. All of them as bland as milk. Nothing to discern them from the myriad of faces that pass me by year after year. And yet, I lie again. At the end of the table, a boy. At least, I _thought_ it was a boy. Whomever it was, they were doing a commendable imitation of a sodden sparrow. Hiding behind his larger Housemates, he was puny, timorous. A pale shadow of the rest of his table, another runt to be added to the Lion House.

Another day to be added to the coils of a serpent's eternity.

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December 15, 1991

How I hate this time of the year. Down here in the dungeon, the cold seeps through my robes and into my very bones. I know if I were to but set foot outside my office, to walk those few steps upwards, I could immerse myself in their laughter, their warmth. But that is simply not my way. Holidays mean little to me, time off from the constant nagging of child brats, that is all. It was the same at Halloween, and it will be the same at Christmas, as it has been for countless years.

At least this means I will be, for all intensive purposes, alone for the remainder of the holiday. A blissful hiatus from classes and the students that occupy them. I feel as though they get just a small bit worse every year, just that much thicker, that much slower. Still, any student will be hard pressed to top this year's _alumnus pensus_, a neatly package bundle of nerves and tics that has the gall to refer to itself as a student by the name of Neville Longbottom.

Gods, my head hurts at the merest thought of the boy.

A more worthless excuse for a wizard has never existed. This is what they are letting into Gryffindor now? If that is the case, it should be no great feat to take the House in competition. Perhaps that will keep the masses satisfied until next year. Then again, perhaps not. I mistook them at the beginning of the year for fools and bumblers unsuited to be anything but common soldiers, but I see now that I was possibly mistaken. The young Malfoy, at least, has shown quite some promise. Maybe he will surpass his father after all...

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January 4, 1992

Quite the welcome into the new year. Not only have they forgotten already what little they have learned, but they seem to have made it a point lose as well that small grain of common sense that may have redeemed them.

The Potter boy managed to earn himself detention already after picking a fight with young Malfoy while Weasley successfully blew up his cauldron. The Granger girl...her very existence sets my teeth on edge and it is all I can do not to grind them when she speaks. I fear my actions will turn drastic before the year is out. Longbottom. I swear he is sent by the gods to test my patience. If I don't run out of control before he graduates, surely his family will run out of money replacing his supplies once every week or so. I can only hope. Ah, my head hurts too much to concentrate. To bed.

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February 20, 1992

They are so young....they are all so young.

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April 4th, 1992

Thank you, Albus. Somehow, that man knows exactly when I am right at the point of breaking and knows exactly what needs to be done in order to pull me back. So now I find myself saddled with a challenge. "Right up your alley," Albus says to me. Knockturn, perhaps, but that is another matter. I'd have said so to his face, but it takes so much out of me to even hint at flippancy now.

Challenged to create a challenge. I'm not quite sure why Albus wishes to put so much time into creating such precautions. The chances of anyone getting past that wretched beast Hagrid calls "Fluffy" are slim. I myself have no desire to revisit the thing after my first disastrous encounter. Fluffy indeed.

Regardless, Albus has set me to a task that I believe may test my own creativity. If ever I wished to learn the limits of my cunning, I suppose now would be the time. He wishes for something that would incorporate not only my skill and knowledge of potions, but pure mind work as well. It calls to memory the quill and parchment logic puzzles from when I myself was a child, lengthy processes of careful consideration and elimination until at last the answer is arrived at. It is off those that I believe I will base my own ward.

Distasteful as any task may be, I have never, will never settle for anything less than perfection. This is no exception. What was it you wanted, Albus? Possible, yet not probable. Three options: success, neutralization, death. Perhaps...poison? Scattered among harmless potions. Yet what requires the subject to drink at all? An antidote among the bottles. Antidote to what? A barrier of some sort...a wall and a potion of permeability? Water, and a potion of freezing? The details shall come later. Hmm, now would be the ideal time to rid myself of that awful nettle wine Sprout sent last Christmas. So now I either kill them, send them forward, or get them drunk. I wonder if Albus would notice if I filled all the bottles with poison. Would that I were so lucky...

Now, to work.

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June 21, 1992

Another year gone by, so similar to all the others I must stop and remind myself I have not become caught in a never-ending loop of time. That will wait until I no longer reside in the land of the living...it will be my own private hell. Hell on earth and nothing more to look forward to but the same. How have I managed to trap myself like this? Who would have thought that I, Severus Snape, once a Death Eater with capabilities second only to the Dark Lord himself, could ever end up as I am now? Time...too much time.

Exams are over, Merlin be thanked. Although, I hadn't thought it possible, but I now have even less hope for any of these pathetic creatures I have as students. Few have shown themselves to be even remotely competent in the realm of Potions, and the majority of those few owe their achievements to dumb luck. I can't ever recall a year in which I have had to clean up after so many explosions or stayed behind so long scraping slugs from the floor. Any other time, I would have ordered _them_ to stay behind and take care of their own mess, but what with exams going on, Minerva "suggested" that I let them off. Meddlesome woman. I must remember to pay her back in kind someday.

Now to home. Everything else packed, just one last book and quill to be added to the trunks and boxes of parchment and leather already waiting for my departure. Perhaps this year I will actually get some rest instead of lurking about my own home, waiting for the vultures I call family to descend. What must I do for a brief moment, a rare moment during which I am not fleeing from something? If not the students, the teachers, if not the teachers, my own blood, if not them, then this damn Mark on my arm. And, when all else relinquishes pursuit, I run from myself.


	2. 1992 to 1993

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September 1, 1992

God. Already another year has passed since the first time I saw that wretched boy. And now I have to deal with him yet again, and that Weasley boy as well. Flew directly into that bloody tree which has caused me so much pain in the past, landed me so far into a debt that I can never even begin to repay. And how can I? Sworn to protect the very boy I was once meant to kill? Never directly, perhaps, but still. I can never forget what I once was. As if my own hatred for the boy were not enough, I have this burning hatred in my flesh, the hated of hundreds, the hatred of what can only be described as pure evil. God knows what I would give for a moment of rest, of peace.

What I would give for that boy to be out of Hogwarts forever! It is a desire that goes beyond personal vendetta. With him gone, it is simply one more worry that will leave my mind for good. To have a life debt on top of everything else that I must do, it is almost too much. But I will endure, as I always have. And always will. But still, every moment I can, every opportunity that presents itself, I will try to get that boy out of this school for good. May Albus forgive me.

It is so cold down here, alone. So cold now that Albus has gone, and Minerva. It never bothers me, the loneliness, until someone comes down and reminds me just how lonely it is. Just as I begin to accustom myself, there is always someone who appears, as if there is something out there that forbids me to become used to the solitude. No matter how many times I tell myself I don't care, I begin to wonder, how much of that is because it's true, and how much is because I have no alternative? I don't care, because to care would mean I feel, and if I felt, that would mean I was like the rest of them up there. And if that were the case, I would have gone mad long ago.

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November 7, 1992

The boy, Draco, is a fool. He has his father's looks, yes, but tact seems to have been bred out of the Malfoy gene pool.

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November 18, 1992

Salazar. Damn you to the lowest of the nine hells. With all that is going on now, this is the last thing I need added to my troubles. If this keeps up, I fear I will be too drained to be able to concoct the potion needed once the mandrakes mature, and if that is the case, I haven't the slightest idea where that leaves us all.

At times, I don't know which is worse, having to bear up under the weight, or the strain of having to hide my weakness. Whatever it is, I can feel my strength slowly leaving me every day. To make matters worse, Lucius is calling in one of his many favors from years past, reminding me that ever second I spend in debt to him is dearly paid for. There are times when I feel I cannot bear one more moment of his hands on my skin, and yet bear it I must. I am so used to lying by now that it is no longer a challenge to speak the words he wishes to hear. It has gotten to the point where they don't even stick in my throat as they used to, among other things. The actual act was never a problem, never an issue. It could never be called rape, no matter how one were to look at it. There was a time when _I_ sought _him_ at nights, when I was the one to name the time, the place. Even now, there is a perverse pleasure I get when he calls me to him. And yet, I shall never be able to feel his hands on my body without a shudder running through my very bones. Those hands which have held the wand that brought unimaginable pain...how can they feel so light, so gentle? Every parody of a lover's caress leaves trails of ice on my skin. Even now I feel the tiny pricks along my arms as my skin remembers his touch. Nothing could ever make me forget, for my body would betray me, even if my mind should obey.

Sometimes I find myself wishing for the gaze of Salazar's pet. To feel first the shock of the brute's eyes, then the blessed nothingness. To be frozen in time, suspended in a limbo of neither life nor death, it is all I could ever ask now. It is the closest I could ever come to rest. And yet, if that were to happen, where would that leave us? I am the only one who can brew the potion to save the others...I am the only one. I am needed again, required for a task of mere moments, and then my usefulness will run out again. Tolerated, but never accepted. Never wanted, desired. Only used. Dumbledore tells me time and time again that it is untrue, yet...but enough. I will not let myself sink into the depths of self-pity. I will not allow it, I will _not_. I cannot.

Perhaps the reason I permit Lucius his play is because it was one of the first and few times that someone ever wanted me. Needed me, and me alone. And for that I was grateful.

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January 28, 1993

Our situation grows worse with every passing moment. Too many have already fell prey to this thing that continues to plague our school. There are times when I feel as if though I hear an echoing voice throughout the walls, and yet I know that is crazy. And then at the dueling club the other night, when young Malfoy, damn his incompetent bloodline, let loose the snake upon Finch-Fletchly. I almost believe Potter when he claims to have been trying to stop the serpent. Almost. I can almost swear I heard him, beneath the hissing, I could almost swear it...

Yet this is not the sort of thing one goes around admitting. Even if it were true, even if it were possible that I could speak with a serpent's tongue, I would not care to have it known. Even I would not care to know. That is a fact I could go the rest of my life without confirming. Besides, the words I speak are uttered with a forked tongue anyway. I only pray that mine shall always be just that much quicker, more keen than Lucius'. Dumbledore's too, for that matter. Even without the gift of Parseltongue, I am adept is conversing with serpents of another class entirely. Lucius lacks only the scales. God knows he has spent enough time slithering around on his belly before our Master to be mistaken for a real snake.

Serpents, yes. For I fear I know what it is that lays behind the walls of our school, that petrifies with its very gaze. And yet, I fear that if I am correct, there will all too soon be a student lying not in the Hospital Wing, but instead in the morgue.

Ah, speaking of the morgue. There is one here who might end up there soon, regardless of whether the beast is destroyed, and I can't say the prospect displeases me unduly. Gilderoy Lockhart. The most frivolous, useless lump to ever call itself a wizard. I hope those who are responsible for his existence have already passed away, for surely the knowledge of having spawned this..._thing_ is enough for any self respecting wizard to die of shame.

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February 19, 1993

I would kill that man if I had the energy. I honestly feel that I would. Of all the brainless, incompetent, oxygen thieving prats that ever had the poor taste to set foot in this castle! Defense Against the Dark Arts, bah! Why, Albus, _why_? Do you trust me so little that you would prefer to give even _him_ a chance before myself? Do you trust me so little even now? What must I do, Albus, what must I do to convince you? What have I ever asked for, Albus? Have I ever asked for anything before this? Ever? Nothing save my own life, and that only with persuasion. Now, at times, I wonder if it was worth it. For what good is life when everyone else wishes you were dead?

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February 21, 1993

Amazing, that they believe the Potter boy responsible for this. A mere child could never undertake such a venture as to open the Chamber. Even Draco, as the whispers go, is not exempt from suspicion. Foolish boy. All of his father's sadism and charm, none of his subtlety. Ah, Lucius, do you recall those days? We were the greatest thing this school ever knew. We had it all, power, reputation, infamy, fear. And it was all ours to do with as we wished. Children such as they will never understand what greatness is. Not like we did.

And yet, that greatness was not without price. I found that out all too quickly. For you were the born leader, the charismatic one, the charmer. I was the brains, the schemer, the planner. Yet, you too had those talents, those capabilities. You could have survived without me, I would have failed miserably without you. At first, I never could figure out why you wanted me with you all the time. You could have succeeded brilliantly on your own. You didn't need me. It took me months to figure this out, and still more after to realize what this meant. What a fool I was.

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May 8, 1993

Damn. Damn Lucius and his influence! What worse could happen now? The best is on the loose in the castle, the rest of the staff is on the verge of panic, and now this! Damn you, Lucius, and damn myself for every time I looked on you actions with pride in my heart. Now all I feel is sickness. Albus was the only thing holding this school together in this time of crisis. Now he's gone, and I don't know what to do. No one does. Damn you, Lucius, damn you a thousand times.

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May 29, 1993

So it has finally happened. One of our own has been taken. Should I feel guilt at those words? _Our own_. There are many out there who would tell me I have to right to these words, not when the one in question is a student here at Hogwarts. Not a Gryffindor, surely. They have nothing to do with me. After all, I was once out to undo everything those dear Gryffindors stood for. I am a liar, a cheat and a traitor, one who does not even give a damn about anyone not from my own precious House. Of course not. No one would ever believe that I would give anything to have someone with a sensible head on their shoulders, even a bloody Gryffindor instead of this idiot Draco Malfoy, or his two lurking soldiers.

Not that I, even now, am not proving them correct in their judgment. After all, if I had truly cared, I would not have sent Lockhart down after the girl. I would have gone down after her myself. I would not be sitting here now, pouring my heart out to a godforsaken book! Dammit all! _I_ should be down there, dammit, _me!_ Not that air headed, feather brained, good-for-nothing goose! I continue to tell myself there was nothing else I could do, that sending Lockhart down there was to do nothing but get him out of the way until we came up with a sound plan, and yet...and yet it should have been me. I don't know if I stand a chance against a beast of that nature, but still-- it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what House she is from, she's a girl! An innocent girl who had nothing to do with any of this. Another innocent caught in Voldemort's intrigue. And, as always, I do nothing but stand in the sidelines and watch.

And yet, how I wish...

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June 18, 1993

So much work. Always so much work at end of term, this year more than others. The Potter boy succeeded, of course. Not that I even knew that he tried until he came back up. But he did and lived, defeated the beast and its Master. Lord knows how he did it. Albus knows, but isn't telling, and I was never one to pry. I am quite accustomed to waiting by now, and even more used to my patience go unrewarded. This is no exception.

The mandrakes matured several weeks ago, part of the reason for my preoccupation. The potion is a difficult one, hard to master. No fear of failure, of course, but requisite of my concentration nonetheless. Thank Merlin that's over with.

Home bound in the morning. Another day, another year, another summer. Then back to do it all over again. Pray Lucius has no further use for me the next few months. I could use the rest.


	3. 1993 to 1994

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January 12, 1994

It has been a long time, too long. I have had no free moment, not even a breath that I might have to myself. Not even enough time to open this book, let alone find something to write in it. Not that I don't have enough to put down in ink. Cold, uncaring paper, unresponsive. The only thing to which I may admit that I am afraid. It is getting to be too much too fast. There are days during which I do not feel I can bear much more of this. The meetings are progressively more difficult to attend, both physically and emotionally. I treat it as a game, to see which will break first, my mind or my body. Even this short hiatus is too brief to matter. Class begins in three minutes, and God forbid I should be late. If I must be a hypocrite to my Master's eyes, I cannot afford to do so before my class. I will not tolerate in myself what I find inexcusable in others. In this, at least, I am sincere.

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May 29, 1994

Already another year most gone by, with so little to show. Lucius, damn his eyes, saw everything. Saw every weakness, every tremor, every shadow beneath my eyes; it was he who forced me to absent myself from these meetings, to take "a well deserved break." That alone should not have been so bad, indeed, if it were not for that, I would have worn myself down to nothing. It is instead the measure glare he gives me every night I make my appearance, the careful, calculating look that I have seen leveled so many times against those who were about to die and did not know it yet. I cannot honestly say that this frightens me, indeed, I have not felt fear from another man for longer than I care to think about. Yet, there is something about it that leaves me unsettled, gnawing at my mind. Lucius is shrewd, moreso than many give him credit for. I cannot help but feel that he suspects something and, like a wild creature, is simply biding his time until a moment of opportunity presents itself. I only hope that when it does, I will have made enough of my mark on his regime to help Albus bring them down in time. If I could know that, if I could be certain of this, I would die without complaint.

Yet, perhaps I am only paranoid. It could be that this break is just that and nothing more. Reward for services well rendered, perhaps? Possible. And yet, no other Death Eater will ever know just where and how those services were executed. Except, perhaps, dear Ivan. I do wonder, sometimes, if he ever told his wife. I also wonder whether those memories of nights with me are those that the Dementors take from him now in Azkaban, or if those are the nightmares he is left with, there in the dark. I suppose I shall ever wonder. I have no desire to go and find out for myself.

Speaking of nightmares and Azkaban, the newest atrocity Hogwarts was unfortunate enough to bear witness to. Sirius has returned. Mangy cur. And his flea ridden companion, Remus. What a pair. Canines deserving only of being kicked. Once again they come and disrupt everything. They steal the only chance at glory left to me now. Once again, I am pushed to second place when they are around.

One would think that after all this time I would be able to forgive, to forget. Ha. I don't even know if I am still capable of such actions. And never those two. I will never forgive, and I will never-- _can _never-- forget. How could I forget the two that brought me to the brink of death? How could I forgive the two friends of the one who saved me?

Why did you do it, James? Damn you, damn you and your Gryffindor honour. Why did you pull me back? What in Merlin's name possessed you to save my wretched life, after all I did to you, all I put you through?

Why didn't you let me die?

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May 30, 1994

I did not intend on opening this book today. Not once this summer, in fact, not again until September. I never write when I am anywhere but here. Why is that, I wonder? Even with all the strife and irritation of home, it is not until I return here, to Hogwarts, that I seek the meager solace of the written word. What is it about this place that drives me so?

Be that what it is, I could not let this book be closed all summer with that as the last entry. That would not sit well even with me. It was, perhaps, misleading. I cannot honestly say I wish for death. While I may not cherish my life, I have no desire to cast it aside as useless. Why should I be granted the mercy of death when so much of the suffering I have wrought remains here on earth? Why should I be granted that release?

Bah, there I go again. Drowning is not the way I'd care to leave this life, especially not in a pool of self pity. I have no desire for death. Not yet. All I wish for is rest. Respite. It is only that it gets so bad until that I think sometimes, that I want to die. Not even the summer holidays can restore my depleted reserves. Do they not see? Or is it that they choose not to? I am nothing more than a tool, to be used, to serve its purpose and lie dormant until the time comes for it to be used again. But they don't realise, none of them realise, even the toughest of tools break. Every tool has its breaking point, it can only be pushed so far before it snaps back.

Sometimes I feel I can understand it, from one of them, at least. Dumbledore cannot afford not to use me. I am one of the few resources he still has at his disposal. Never mind that he is pushing me too far, too fast. I am the only one who is prepared. The boy is still too young, all of them are. Until they grow to fill the positions readied for them, I must keep them safe. I must protect them until they grow old enough to protect me.


End file.
